The Faces of Fear
by lost.long.ago
Summary: There's trouble in New York - unexplained explosions are taking the city by surprise, and it's up to the Warehouse agents to stamp out the fires before things get too hot.
1. Chapter 1

_AN: An episode of my own making, set sometime around/after Season 4 ep. 3 ish. There will be some spoilers. Loosely but not strictly accurate to canon. Artie hasn't sent HG to find the dagger, so she's just arrived at the warehouse instead. Eventual HG/Myka. Plausible other relationships and guest appearances possible. _

_Character each chapter is focused on is listed at beginning of chapter… just to put it out there even though you all probably get it._

* * *

**MYKA **

Myka stomped in to the bed-and-breakfast, her jaw clenched tight as she struggled to let building's soothing atmosphere calm her. Midday light flooded through uncovered windows, illuminating the place that had become so intimate a part of her life in the past few years. The comfort and security of familiarity, after five days spent in the field, was beginning to take off the edge. She ducked into the dining room to find Leena at work clearing the table, but her pace never faltered. She needed to get upstairs…

"Myka? Pete? How'd it g-" A few dishes tumbled from Leena's grasp, luckily clattering to the table's wooden surface rather than shattering on the floor. Both hands went to her mouth as she let out a gasp of horror and concern.

The agent knew that she looked like hell, and that reaction just confirmed it; the shade of her black slacks hid the scorch marks but not the gaping holes left where cloth been eaten away by flames. And her shirt, her _favorite _shirt, was even worse.

_Honestly, can I really even call it a shirt anymore_? she wondered as detachedly as she could. It was admittedly more like a mangled bunch of light blue cloth turned dark and stiff where the heat had struck it.

"Oh my gosh… Myka, what happened?" The last two words flew out in a sharp staccato, like separate sentences joined into a concerned question.

Myka pulled at the remains of her scorched shirt, trying to adjust the stiff edges and tatters that were rubbing uncomfortably across her skin. Her mind flew over the events of the past few days, over the chain of cause-and-effect that had led to her present state.

It could be said that it had begun a month prior, just after that psycho Sykes had nearly destroyed the one place that almost felt like home. _Almost_. Perhaps it had for a while, but when the proverbial smoke had cleared, Myka had found herself jittery. Ever since things had quieted down, she'd felt an undeniable longing to be elsewhere – an ounce of ever-present anxiety telling her that there was some distant place calling to her like a Siren.

Pushing it away hadn't worked. She'd begged for assignments, but the random travel never offered much reprieve. Her sleep schedule shortened, and when not off hunting artifacts, she began going for long 4:00 AM jogs hoping they would burn off this new restless energy. They didn't. Instead, every single one ended with her at a secluded wayside eight miles east of the bed-and-breakfast, eyeing the horizon as the sun slipped past it.

Hiding it hadn't yielded any greater success. Leena could read aura's, for God's sake, and Pete… Well, on one of those mornings, she'd been sitting on an weathered old bench, wondering what it would be like to just keep going instead of returning to the Warehouse, when he'd stumbled out of the bushes and into the clearing. It was later explained that the man had woken up early and followed her for the full eight miles. But, in that clearing, skin pouring out sweat and muscles body quivering with fatigue, he'd sat down beside her and waited for the pale yellow orb rise as quietly as his heavy breaths would allow.

Her partner, despite being at times the most childish adult man on the face of the planet, knew her, how to handle her – when to push, when to pull, and when to sit back and do nothing. By the time it had fully climbed into sight, she'd struggled through a self-initiated description of the inexplicable longing to travel. She'd tried to explain that it wasn't that she didn't like the Warehouse, or that its near-destruction had affected her, but rather that something else was pulling her away, eastward, and she didn't know how, or why, or what.

And so, five days ago, when Artie had sent the pair to Virginia to hunt down an artifact which had turned Jamestown into one large chaotic riot, she'd been ecstatic. After arriving at the scene, Myka had been rewarded with three days of a nearly complete return to normal – no constantly tapping foot, no impairment to her focus, and an almost normal sleep schedule. Both she and Pete had been delighted at the improvement, even if the artifact itself was at the time proving to be difficult to locate.

On the fourth day, though, Pete awoke at a little after 3 in the morning to the sound, drifting under the closed door, of his partner pacing across the hotel's floor. When he had stumbled into the room still half asleep, she'd admitted that the feeling was back, but this time, she was pretty sure it was her wanting to get back to South Dakota.

Badly.

And so she'd become sloppy. Really, they both had. She'd managed to track down Nathaniel Bacon's torch and identify it as the cause. But, in the rush to get back to the Warehouse, they'd avoided any stops possible. Myka drove through the nights and most of the day, and Pete had gone along with it, taking a turn and doing his best to quiet his grumbling stomach and keep his eyes away from the myriad restaurant billboards alongside the highway.

When she'd stumbled into Warehouse this morning, sleep-deprived but once again almost cured of that nagging anxiety, Myka hadn't really considered the shelf they had settled upon assigning the artifact to. She hadn't thought about where the alphabetical approach would place it inside of the Colonial Era section. When Pete, unawares of who Nathaniel Bacon was, picked up a fork from the shelf and waved it near the aged wooden torch in her hands, making a joke about combining it with "Berkeley's Breakfast Ware to get some eats before his stomach ate itself," she had realized that that "Berkeley" was in fact William Berkeley, the governor whom Bacon had usurped, a moment too late.

Needless to say, the torch hadn't reacted kindly.

Now, facing hyper-concerned Leena, Myka had to admit to herself that she was perhaps partially to blame for her present state of dress. Yet, it was a longer story than she cared to tell.

"Someone thought Nathaniel Bacon had something to do with breakfast food," she explained poorly in a tight voice as she crossed the room.

Pete came in behind her, carrying their suitcases. "Hey, I said I was sorry!" He set the bags on the dark hardwood floor. "We didn't have time to get breakfast! And how was I supposed to know the fork would react like that?" he asked indignantly. Moving to the table, he snatched up a cold bagel and took a huge bite. "Mmmm, blueberry. Leena, you do know you are my favorite aura-reading, bed-and-breakfast-owning woman ever, right?"

"Yeah, because I'm sure you know so many of those," Myka muttered under her breath. Turning into the living room with downcast eyes, she started up the stairs, focused on getting to the shower as quickly as possible.

Or, at least until her eyes caught sight of a familiar pair of dark, knee-high riding boots on the next step. Myka's body froze in recognition. Her head jerked up, gaze quickly traversing the lithe body to find its owner's dark eyes.

"Myka."

"Helena," Myka breathed. Suddenly, any thoughts or anxiety she'd been harboring was lost.

The fate of H.G. Wells had been a mystery weighing heavily on her mind since their by-the-seat-of-their pants rescue of the Warehouse. Helena's near self-sacrifice via destruction of the Janus coin, the game of chess Myka certainly would've died in if not for her efforts – when the regents had swooped in and out, taking the author with them, it had left the agent feeling unresolved.

"You- wait." Myka's heart fell with uncertainty.

Both parties watched intently as her hand slowly rose through the space between them. Myka winced as it neared the raven-haired woman's shoulder, fearing disappointment. Instead, she found her hand resting against the soft solidity of a true body.

"You're here. You're actually here." The brunette met the gaze, absorbed in the realization. She immediately lurched forward, wrapping the Brit in a tight hug. The embrace was awkward, their height-difference difficult work around, but Myka didn't care, thoughtlessly throwing her arms around the woman and letting the side of her face push against the raven-haired woman's shoulder.

Though taken by surprise at this tactile greeting, Helena's lips quickly curled upward, her own arms draping around the Myka's shoulders as best they could.

"Hey, Mykes, do you know where I – HG, is that you?! Are you for real this time?" Pete walked into the living room, two bagels smothered in cream-cheese in hand and half of another already wadded up in his mouth.

The moment shattered, and Myka pulled away. Her hands fell back down to her side.

"Yes, Agent Lattimer. I'm here and quite 'for real' this time." Her gaze moved down, taking in Myka's tattered clothes and bare skin as if realizing her disheveled state for the first time. "Oh my. What has Mr. Lattimer done this time?

"Hey, why am I always blamed for doing these things?"

"Well, was it you?" HG asked as she leaned back, crossing her arm and shooting him a sly glance.

"I guess yeah, but-"

Helena smirked. "As I was saying…"

Sighing in defeat, Pete turned and left for the kitchen, mumbling something about chocolate milk fixing everything.

Helena looked back to the brunette before her. "Are you alright? You don't look to be in pain, but should I find some burn cream?" She reached out and gingerly pulled at a piece of yellowed cotton hanging from the agent's collarbone, leaning in to examine the skin beneath it.

The contact brought Myka life, snapping her out of the mindless stare she'd been directing towards the other woman. She fought not to blush as she began to feel the self-consciousness set in. It seemed an easy emotion to fall into in the presence of the charismatic, ingenious H.G. Wells, especially after having initiated that overly-energetic hug. "Ahh, no." Ducking her head, she pushed the hand away and started to edge past. "I mean, thank you, really. But I just need to, to get cleaned up."

Helena's tilted head followed her motions, her eyes casting a look the fumbling agent couldn't quite read; however, she did know that it made her feel even more naked than she already was.

"Of course. I look forward to seeing you when you are finished, then."

Myka reached the top landing and began to back away. A sheepish smile curled across her lips. "All right."

The raven-haired woman returned the smile close-lipped, nodding her head and turning to go down.

"But Helena-" the words tumbled out of Myka's mouth without a second thought. She looked down at her shoes and ran a hand through her singed hair as the woman turned back. Searching for the right words, she took a deep breath. "It's… it's really good to have you back." Her eyes darted up uncertainly, looking through eyelashes at Helena's.

The shorter woman lips spread into an unrestrained grin. "Thank you. I believe I'm already enjoying being back." She turned away and wandered out in Pete's footsteps.

Myka let out the pent-up breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding as Helena disappeared from sight. Shaking herself, she walked away, heading for her room.

The encounter, while granting more than a little relief and excitement, had also dredged up all the uncertainties she'd been left trying to bury. Memories of the green foliage of the now-distant forest where Pete had nearly destroyed the Janus coin, of Caturanga's lethal game of chess with the sensation of the cold metal of a gun barrel pressing against Myka's temple – there had been moments that they'd never had time to come to terms with, to discuss.

She pushed them away, hard.

For now, the friend who she'd grown so close to was back, she felt like her normal self for the first time in weeks, and a promising shower followed with comfortable, fresh clothes was calling her name.


	2. Chapter 2

_AN: A slow chapter, or I feel like it is; yet, it's somewhat necessary. Next one should pick up. Gosh, it's been a while since I tried to write fic, and I definitely prefer writing in first person, but practice makes perfect, right? Anyways, the next update will hopefully be up by Saturday. Until then...**  
**_

_And my proof-reading session was a hurried one; I happily accept pointers to those mistakes which I may have missed.  
_

* * *

**Claudia**

_Ha, fool. Thought your little subroutine could keep me out? Old man, you ought to have realized who you're dealing with here. _Her fingers stalled at her laptop for a second as a new alert popped up. _Gah, another firewall? Artie, all this is doing is slowing me down. You can't stop the Claudster. Resistance is futile. I mean, that encryption bit on the last one was clever, but really? I think someone needs to remind you that when I was fourteen I'd already crack…_

"Hey, Claudia. Where is everyone?"

Claudia jumped at the surprise interruption. Fumbling, she slammed her laptop shut just in time to turn and spot Leena striding into the room.

"Gah! Erm, I don't know. I think Myka's still in the shower," she offered.

The older woman set down a plate of cookies in the center of the table and another with a sandwich piled with greens at one edge. Claudia watched, mustering to her face every ounce of innocence she could put together. _Not that it'll do much good when she can read you're insides like a paint-by-number._ Still, it seemed worth the effort. After a moment of pointed staring, Leena gave up. Or, maybe she figured it out. Either way, she relented in the hard look.

"Well, Artie's on his way here with another assignment. Could you get everyone together?"

"No problemo." Claudia leaned forward in her chair, craning her neck to look through the doorway a few feet to the right. "PEEEETE! HG! GET IN HEEEERE!" When she settled back, she found herself being subjected to another glare of sorts. _How can you not appreciate that I just helped you? Or the sing-song voice I used in doing it?_ Pouting slightly, she held up her hands in mock-innocence. "Sorry?"

Leena rolled her eyes, but couldn't quite hide the slight smile tugging at her features. Shaking her head, she moved back towards the hallway. "I have to go grab another chair. Don't let Pete eat that sandwich; it's for Myka."

Claudia snorted. "You really think I could stand fast between him and food?"

"I have some faith." And with that, she was gone.

Claudia sighed picking up a cookie from the plate. They were still warm, and the first bite melted in against her tongue, radiating chocolaty goodness. Digging in her pocket, she pulled out her smartphone. It was a haphazard collection of bits and pieces, a hybrid of various hardware she'd combined to make what was probably the best of its kind. It wouldn't work quite so well as her laptop for her little project, but it was a lot less conspicuous. If lucky, she'd be able to punch through another layer of Artie's defenses before he arrived.

Helena strode into the room just as she started up her self-designed assistant app.

"What in the world was the cause of all that yelling?"

"Artie's coming," Claudia answered shortly, too distracted in the flow of information now raging across the screen.

Leena appeared before Helena could respond. "If we keep picking up strays like this, I'm going to need a larger table," she remarked teasingly as she entered the dining room, extra chair in hand. Flipping her loose, curly mane of locks over one shoulder, she set it down and began shifting the rest to compensate for the new arrival. The motions came to her thoughtlessly; acts of adjusting the environment and those in it in a way that allowed everything to settle smoothly into one – it was a talent that came naturally, surely accentuated by her ability to observe auras. The youngest of the agents couldn't help but appreciate the knack and its results.

"I'm not sure I'd really call HG a stray. I mean, she was part of the Warehouse for, like, what, a hundred years?" Claudia asked. She leaned back in her chair, thumbs working at her phone.

"Thank you, Claudia," Helena replied wryly before repeating the sentiment to Leena with actual sincerity and taking a seat.

Leena smiled, shaking her head and leaving for the kitchen.

The young agent hardly noticed either, too consumed in the device in her hands.

Crumpled business clothes traded for thick grey sweats and a T-shirt emblazoned with "There are only two types of criminals," Pete took a seat between the two agents. "Hey, speaking of strays, what ever happened to Dickens? I mean, I never really took you for the cat type, but that little guy was kind of cute."

HG cringed. "I don't _know_ what happened to him, and I'm certainly not 'the cat type.'"

"Well, your subconscious sure was. You should've seen yourself, cuddling with that big gray fur-ball, telling him how cute he was, tweaking his nose and holding his little paws…" Pete rambled on in a baby voice.

The raven-hair woman covered her eyes with a palm.

"He's never going to let you live that down, you know." Everyone turned as Myka strode into the room, toweling her hair dry. Her burnt clothing discarded for a pair of jeans and a loose V-neck, she both looked and felt loads better than when she'd arrived half an hour ago.

Helena's eyes followed the agent's form as it moved to settle in the chair across from her. "I feared as much."

"And I don't know that I'm ready to, either," the brunette added with a grin. Her time spent in the shower had done seemingly wonders in helping her get a grasp on the author's return.

Pete gave her a fist-bump. "You know, I think I still have some pictures of them on my phone. Do you think Artie would let us use Warehouse funds to get posters made?" he mused.

Shaking her head, Helena looked down at her lap, but the curtains of ebony hair couldn't quite hide the amused curve of her lips.

Artie appeared in the doorway as if summoned by name. He walked to the table, a pile of folders under one arm. "No, you will not be using any of _my _money on low-resolution prints of Agent Wells cuddling her cat," he answered, heavily setting his load on the table to emphasize the ultimatum. He picked a leather bound folder off the top and handed it Myka, who passed it down the line.

"I don't have a cat!" The statement went ignored.

"Well there's gotta be an artifact that would fix the blurriness somewhere in the Warehouse. A magic tube of paint or something…" Pete replied. He refused to be put off so easily.

Claudia snickered, eyes still plastered to her phone. "Psht, artifact? Text me it, and the next time I've got ten minutes at my computer, I'll whip you up a copy with so many pix it'll be like she posed in a Vogue studio."

He turned to her, excitement seeming to pour forth from his figure in waves. "Ooh, really? Does that mean you're good with Photoshop? 'Cause I was thinking -"

"Children, enough!" Artie cut in as he finished passing around the folders. He'd been far more tense since things had gone down with Sykes several weeks ago and he would have nothing of banter this morning. "We've got work to do." He took a seat at the head of the table.

"Work?" Myka repeated, slinging her damp towel over the back of her chair. "Do you mean traveling work? So we're heading back into the field _already?"_

Pete ignored the jibe and leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head. "Well, you know how it is, Mykes. The good guys never have time to rest. Gotta save the world and all."

Artie leaned forward, placing his fists, gnarled fingers intertwined, on the table. "Exactly, Agent. And sometimes saving the world and, more importantly, _keeping _it safe requires sacrifices."

* * *

**Myka**

"Sacrifices – now I'm not sure if I ought to be intgued or alarmed," HG voiced wryly. Eyebrow arched in a bemused look directed to Myka, she shifted to pull her folder into her lap and flipped back the opening cover. "Inventory. An unexpected turn of events, though rather anticlimactic…"

Pete snatched up his folder and Claudia threw down her phone, leaning precariously over the arm of her chair to catch a glimpse at his shoulder. Their eyes could only confirm it, and they simultaneously burst into protest.

"Inventory! Artie, my man, we just got back-"

"No way Gramps. Since when is Charles Wettach's make-up – "

"-and hunting down and labeling things like, like 'face paste' isn't my priority right- "

"-being ranked with the biggies? C'mon, Ar-"

But Myka couldn't bring herself to join them, or to even truly hear them. She watched as the most senior of them twiddled his thumbs, how he shifted his feet. Her eyes narrowed, her brow furrowing as she tried to dissect his image.

The lines in his face seemed rougher than they had a month ago, or even a week ago. His goatee was overgrown and its edges lost in the untamed whiskers sprouting across the surrounding skin. The tension in his shoulders and the wrinkled garments hanging from them, the shifting eyes and the purplish circles under them…

Something was playing on his nerves. Well, that much had been obvious since the near-destruction of the Warehouse. He'd been awfully jumpy and not particularly ecstatic about the victory. But it appeared the mood was progressing, growing on him and taking things to a new level of foreboding oddness.

She felt a pair of eyes upon her, and glanced away to find Helena casually reclining in against the back of her chair, regarding her curiously. Myka held the glance for a moment, wondering if the characteristically observant author had noted any of the same things. Yet, that dark gaze, inlaid amongst schooled features, offered no hints. She felt a frown tugging at her lips, but reversed it into a polite smile before using her own folder as an excuse to break away.

"Enough!" Artie finally roared through the host of complaints. "It needs to be done. I expect you all down there today, and working on it. I've compiled lists of the artifacts, though we've never had the… most organized, filing system."

"Wait, wait, wait. Hold up," Claudia cut in. "If we're all going through the briefing shebang on what's gotta officially be the worst assignment you've given in the past 500 years, where's my boy Jinksy?"

Myka looked away, rubbing the back of her neck to hide the gesture. If Claudia had to ask, then the older woman was pretty certain Steve hadn't revealed the metronome's effects or his need to figure them out quite yet. In fact, she wasn't sure if he'd let anyone else catch on altogether, Artie included.

Artie shook his head. "On leave. He's taking time off to study up on the metronome, and Mrs. Fredrick thought it was a good idea."

"Well, then shouldn't I study, too? I mean, I _am _the one who did the whole freaky ritual that brought him back from the dead and everything…"

"No." The aged man stood up, closing the folder and adjusting his glasses. "This needs to be done, and yesterday."

"Time travel. Good thing we now have an expert on it." The comment earned Myka a smirk from the author. She returned it in kind, but not without noticing Artie blanch slightly at the joke. The observation made her expression of amusement a short-lived one.

"Yes, well," the grizzled man cleared his throat. "I've compiled what manifests I could in order of importance. Our filing system is a little out-of-date-"

Claudia snorted.

"- So there may be some things inconsistencies," he continued, ignoring her. "Just go through it shelf by shelf. Anything missing, tell me _immediately_. Anything unlisted in the data banks, Claudia can take care of filing it."

With that, he picked up his satchel and left, the wooden door accenting his departure into the cool November air with a sharp finality. Myka stared through the glass panels, mulling his body language and inconsistencies.

"Well, this stinks." Pete shut his folder and slapped it back on the table.

Claudia slumped back against her chair. "Amen, brother."

No one said anything, a moment of stillness ensuing.

The silence was broken as HG inhaled deeply and slapped her palms onto the wooden arms of her chair. The movement stole Myka's attention as the author levered herself up off of the seat. "I suppose that means we ought to get a move on, yes?"

"Artie's always gets in grizzly-bear moods over inventory. He'll have me spend one day tucking in the children and making sure they're all accounted for, and the next, it's like he couldn't care less. By tomorrow, he'll probably have forgotten about it," the youngest of them offered.

"No," Myka answered abruptly. She swiftly took to her feet, staring at her folder to avoid the looks of curiosity her partner and Claudia were giving her. Part of her knew better than to take stock in the examples of the past in this moment. "You guys should get ready to head out. Something about this is…" She struggled for the right words. "I don't think he's going to let this go until it's finished, so we might as well get started."

After a fair number of sighs and a fair bit of grumbling, Claudia and Pete drifted away to get their things, leaving the pair of women alone.

Myka glanced over at Helena, trying to hide her misgivings on their latest and perhaps crummiest assignment. "So, when did you get back?" she asked. She found her earlier excitement at the author's homecoming returning with a grin.

"The day before yesterday, I believe. It seems the Regents decided I was deserving of another chance, though I'm not entirely certain why." Helena picked up her folder, tucking it under an arm. "I was disappointed to find you and Lattimer off hunting. I take it you found what you were looking for?"

"Oh yes. Though, it took a bit longer than I'd hoped for," Myka admitted casually.

"Yes, you seem exhausted."

Myka considered the statement. She hadn't slept more than a scattered handful of hours in the past two days, and no more than four a night for weeks prior to that. The effects of it were now finally promising to become evident at any moment. "I am. I should probably go make some coffee before we go, or else I'll probably be napping while you guys are working." Her stomach seemed to know that the conversation had at last turned to nourishment; it growled loudly as if in agreement.

HG chuckled at the sound, leaning across the table and plucking the folder from Myka's arms. "And something to eat as well, it would seem. I'll take care of gathering the paperwork. You go on. I'm sure Lattimer overlooked some morsel in his frenzied feeding."

Myka felt her cheeks warm slightly but couldn't restrain a smile. After a moment of deliberation as to whether or not she should deny the offer, a second loud rumble tipped the scale. Her body's cries refused to go unanswered for much longer, and she couldn't find the will to act differently.

"Thanks." She found herself forced to pause on her journey around the table as the desire to give the woman another hug suddenly struck her. Instead, she settled for a hand on the raven-haired woman's shoulder. "You'll have to tell me where you've been this past month as soon as I'm mentally present enough to remember it."

Receiving a smile and a nod, she took her leave, praying to the Coffee Gods that she'd be able to scrounge up something strong.


	3. Chapter 3

_AN: Updates two days in a row! Just don't get used to it ;P_

_I truly got lost in writing this chapter; it seemed as if I was falling back into that energy-driven sway so characteristic of writing fiction. Not fully there yet, perhaps, but getting there. I was surprised to remember at the end that this is only a side-track in the main arc I've plotted out, a tangent necessary to establish certain details. It felt perhaps a bit too intense... ah well._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

**Pete**

"Is it five yet? Please tell me it's past five."

"Pete, you asked me that ten minutes ago!" Myka snapped exasperatedly. She returned a chipped coffee-mug to its place on the shelf and made another blue-ink "X" on her clip board. "My answer's not going to be much different now than it was then."

"But Myyyyykkaaaaa, I'm bored." His stomach gurgled. "And starving," he added.

She didn't reply.

Refusing to be so easily ignored, Pete stepped around her to examine the artifact. _Well, this one doesn't seem too dangerous. _After a moment, he reached out and hefted the seemingly normal cup, turning it in around in his palms. "So, what's this one do? Can it make expresso?"

"Pete! Put that back! Remember this morning?"

He knew she wasn't _really _angry with him this time. After a month of strange behavior and stranger vibes rolling off his partner, he had felt a change (for the better) the moment they'd walked into the B&B. Myka was tired and a little worse for the wear, but he didn't doubt she felt the best she had in weeks. Whether it was due to HG's return or simply being home, Pete couldn't help but appreciate the development. The brunette seemed focused and grounded in a way that promised she'd returned to being the good ol' Mykes from the old days – the best partner ever, insanely smart with a pinch of dorky humor.

Still, a twinge of guilt returned at the reminder of his mistake with the Berkeley fork. Ducking his head, he carefully put the object back in its place.

"Alright, alright. But can we take a snack break soon?"

Myka shot him a glance.

_Yes! That's her giving-in face. _"Pleeease?" He added, taking on the most pitiful lost-puppy expression he could muster.

It worked.

"Fine. Ten more minutes, and then we'll go up to the office."

Pete's heart leapt up in triumph and he unleashed a two-step victory dance on the way back to the shelf he'd been working at. His stomach growled again as he picked up his clipboard. _We can do this, little buddy. Just ten more minutes._ He patted his belly and returned to the boring task of inventory.

The time wasn't even halfway past when the pangs in his torso began to worsen quickly. _Gah, is it possible to for your stomach to eat itself after all?_ Hoping to soothe it, he rubbed and pulled at the surface of his skin through the barrier of his shirt. Ignoring it didn't work; the sensation wreaked havoc on his already failing focus. The starving agent was about to open his mouth and say something when his partner stole what little attention he could spare.

"Pete..."

"Yeah?" He looked up from his stomach and found Myka frozen, looking down the aisles. Her face was a crossbreed of her usual "I've got some serious brainwaves going on" and "Something's just not right here" expressions.

"Are you getting any vibes?" The words came out to the parsed cadence of hesitancy.

The man paused and thought about it for a second before it struck him. _"_Thank God. So my stomach's not consuming itself." He couldn't help the relieved smile that flitted to his face.

"What?" Myka turned to him, truly confused.

"Yes, yes I'm getting vibes." The answer put him back on track, and the smile left as quickly as it had arrived when he realized what this development meant. "Bad ones. And kinda strong." He felt them out for a moment before an oddity struck him. "Wait a second. How'd you know?"

She turned away, taking a few steps in the direction she'd previously been looking. He followed, observing how her eyes scanned the dark forest of shelves, how her left hand clutched at her chest, bunching up the cloth of her grey button-up. "I feel… I think I might be getting them too. Can you tell if they're coming from this direction?"

Pete shook his head. "They're more like the Bat Signal than radar. I know something's up, but almost never what or where."

"Damn," she muttered, covering the last few feet to the corner of the shelf and peeking uncertainly around its corner.

The quiet outburst keyed him in to just how this partner was doing here. Myka wasn't one to throw around curse words when it came time to fall into mission mode. Whatever she was feeling, she was really feeling it. It suddenly struck him how badly he now wished he'd brought the Tesla.

He moved up beside her, mirroring her actions. "Myka, if you think you know where it's coming from, trust it," he encouraged quietly.

A brisk nod was all the acknowledgment he received before she took off.

A key to a great horror movie is setting. That dark, claustrophobic forest, thick with impenetrable cover made for and of unnamed shadows; the terror of isolation and suffocation emanating from a varied environment plunged into shadow; the knowledge that there may very well not be another decent soul for miles. As Pete fell in behind her, he couldn't help but notice just how good of a set the Warehouse could make. Its shelves, some decently lit but others not at all, and every single one covered in myriad uncontrollable objects, were perfect.

_I'll have to mention it to Claud._

They moved in as consistently northwest as the grid of aisles would allow, traveling farther and farther away from the main office and backup. Myka loped forward, her steps urgent, yet reined in with a good dose of caution. Occasionally she'd halt, her hand returning to grasp at her chest for only a moment before she would take off once again at a doubled pace. Her long legs ate up the concrete easily, and Pete found himself working to keep up while trying to match the level of alertness she was displaying.

Another pang wormed through Pete's belly and he struggled not to double over at the sensation. It was more discomfort than pain, and he suspected the intensity had something to do with his hungry state. _So using this as a reason for more meal breaks at work,_ he thought.

Myka hooked a right and Pete followed, almost colliding with her halted form as he rounded the corner close on her tail. Scooting to the side, he followed her gaze. His stomach plummeted as it reached its point of focus.

A figure sat on the floor, knees pulled up to her chest and held tightly by thin arms. Her head was buried in against her legs, dark hair draped over her features and swaying as her body rocked back and forth anxiously. She was crying, the quiet sobs intermingled with indiscernible outbursts of muddled words. Against her feet lay a staff, perhaps a little under six feet in length, an inch in diameter. Its surface was cracked and weathered as if it had spent most of its existence outdoors, and a meager few embellishments were held to it with leather straps near one end. One such tethered trinket, a small wooden handle ending in a long, thin rod of silver metal, was clenched tightly in one white-knuckled fist.

"HG…" Pete murmured in horror. He looked back to Myka, waiting for her to give him the plan. It didn't come. She seemed to be on the verge of shock, eyes wide and full of fear.

He pushed her shoulder. "Myka, we have to do something, right now."

The brunette stirred, shaking her head. Pete gently applied more pressure to the shoulder, turning her until she faced him and her eyes finally moved to his. He watched her mouth work, open and shut, open and shut, but without the release of sound. "C'mon, Myka. Focus."

She closed her eyes. "The sprinklers. We need to douse whatever artifact is doing this."

He nodded. "Now that's my Mykes." He ducked his head around the corner, looking for the lever to start the purple goop flowing. It wasn't there. "Controls must be on the other end of the shelves. I'll go, you keep an eye on her."

Myka eyes opened as her head bobbed in concurrence. "Circle around a few shelves to make sure you don't come in contact. If it doesn't work, start pulling adjacent levers too."

He took off sprinting the moment the last syllable left died upon his partner's lips, leaving her to fend against whatever it was that held HG under its sway. Moving past three aisles, he ducked into the fourth. The shelves in this section were long; he estimated the distance before him to be over 100 meters. His already fatigued limbs never stopped churning as he set off towards his destination.

He just hoped they could carry him fast enough.

**STEVE **

One week.

One week to figure out how was that a dead man was brought back to life. 7 days to dig away nearly 200 years of obscurity and unearth the true price of rebirth.

The enormity, a perhaps futility, of his task was becoming apparent as Steve thumbed through the meager collection of papers before him. Most artifacts had a story… a history. But this one? All he had so far was a poor, two sentence log made by some Warehouse 12 clerk referencing Robert Schumann, the few pages of information he had scrounged up online about who exactly Mr. Maelzel was, and his own experience. There were no lists of past tangles or victims to follow up on, no collection of myths or legends to dissect. All he had were a few long-dead musicians and Diamond, and their decaying corpses sure weren't offering up any hints.

This case was cold – the artifact, a ghost.

Leaning back into his chair, Steve stretched and closed his eyes. A tired sigh escaped his lips. Day One of the search for answers wasn't proving to be overly fruitful and he was already having trouble hedging his frustration with it. _Just breathe. You made progress. You have some background knowledge; you've filled in a few strokes of the big picture. Just breathe._

"Hey Jinksy, how's the learning treating you?"

Steve opened his eyes just in time to see his partner striding into the office. "Not as well as I'd hoped, but it's going."

The black messenger bag slid from her shoulder, guided to the floor as Claudia leaned over a desk to start up the artifact-monitoring console. "Well, I could always offer you a hand, you know."

The undercurrent of discomfort in her voice was clear. He'd been worried from the start that his desire to keep his current symptoms and their research to himself might make her feel betrayed, and it now seemed as though his fears had not been misplaced.

"I know, and I really, truly appreciate what you've done for me and knowing you're right there, backing me up if I need it," he replied in earnest. "But, I just feel like-" he made a vague gesture with his hand as the words tried to evade him. "Like this is something I need to figure out for myself. Like you've already done so much."

Claudia met his gaze briefly before tearing it away to take a seat before the brightening monitor. "I think I understand."

_Lie._ The older man tried not to cringe at the sensation. _Well, almost a lie. She thinks she understands some little bit of it, but that was an end-of-conversation tactic._ He kept his mouth shut and did her the justice of going along with it.

"Well," she began, her eyes riveted to the glowing screen as she began to navigate the neon green data panels, "you couldn't have picked a better time to take off. Though, I've gotta say it's kinda lame that the best vacation place you could think up was Artie's office."

His lips curled with the change of topic. "Yeah, I think Artie felt the same way. He got kind of antsy when I set up shop in here."

"Oh, old bear. I bet he was worried you'd find his stash of-" The words cutoff without warning, and he watched her eyebrows furrow. "Did he come in here?"

Going with the flow, he thought about it. "Artie? Um, once before you all got here, and then again maybe an hour ago." Steve slid out of his chair and moved to take up a position at his partner's shoulder. "Why?"

"Huh." She pointed to a string of code on the screen. "There's an artifact disturbance over in the Australian Aboriginal's aisle. I think that's where HG is working right now. If I can just…" Her fingers played at the keyboard, issuing coded commands her partner had no chance of understanding . The screen changed, a blown up map of the Warehouse filling the brunt of it. "Oh no."

Steve watched as her hands fell away, her gaze locked on the small blinking dot emitting rippling circles across the pixelated image. Not at all tech-savvy, he knew there was something important he was out of the loop about here. "Claudia, what is it?"

"Oh no, no, no." Shaking her head, Claudia pushed her chair back and ran over to a table to grab a pair of purple latex gloves. She immediately began pulling them on. "We've got a major activity in that section."

He followed as she moved towards the door to the main storage room. "Okay, then let's just activate the sprinklers from here."

Biting her lip, she shook her head viciously. "I can't." Her voice wavered as she explained, words tumbling out at an accelerating rate. "Some wiring for the remote-firing sequence wore out in that sector a month back. We tore it out but never got around to replacing it after all the commotion with Sykes. No one ever goes back there; it's a quiet section, so we weren't too worried …" Claudia moved out onto the platform, scooping up the zip-line harness and sliding into it as quickly as she could. Her quaking hands fumbled with the buckles.

Stepping forward, Steve pushed them away and took over, securing the nylon straps with practiced proficiency. "Okay. You head down, I'll go back and Farnsworth the rest of the team. Then, I'll grab the cart and meet you." He clipped her shoulders to the bar as she nodded. "Watch your back, okay?"

With one last glance and a curt nod, the young woman stepped clear of the steel sheet-metal.

He watched for swinging body pick up momentum for only a moment before scrambling back into the office. Moving over to Artie's desk, his hands burrowed through the overflowing piles of paperwork, groping for the spare communicator they always kept at home-base. Pushing aside a stack of pictures of an ancient knife, his fingers collided with a solid metal surface.

_Thank God._Grasping its edges, he pulled extracted the object to find it was exactly what he'd been searching for. There was no time to waste. Flipping back the cover, he immediately began hailing his superior.

"C'mon, Artie, C'mon." He hit the button a second time and begged the old man to answer.

**HELENA**

**(A few minutes prior)**

Helena rolled her neck and tried to stretch her shoulders to relieve some of the tension that had slowly been growing there; hunching over a clipboard and myriad objects was beginning to take its toll, not only on her body, but on her patience. Helena G. Wells was a woman of adventure, of abstract thought, of pursuits, if there ever was one. The lonely, repetitive labor of reprocessing items seemed most terribly pointless.

"Well, it is at the very least better than the Janus coin," she reminded herself in a sigh. "And, a great more than I truly deserve."

Finishing her examination of an old mask of composed of rough-hewn bark, she was about to move on when a glittering at her feet caught her eye. Honing in, she found herself staring at the edge of a shining golden object, the majority of its form tucked under the base of the wooden shelf.

Sighing, she dropped to a crouch to get a better look.

It turned out to be a medal of sorts, in the shape of a five-pointed star. Bending down further, she found herself confronted by a little over a dozen of them, as well as a small wooden box. The container sat open, its hinged lid hanging wide to rest upon the concrete floor.

Double-checking her glove, she twisted her arm into the confined space, fishing out the rectangular item and holding it up to her face for closer inspection.

The oaken box itself was rather nondescript. However, inside rested another handful of golden badges identical to that which had first caught her eye. She ran a finger across one's face and paused. She felt warmth, but no adverse effects. Careful not to tear her glove on their edges, she sought one out and held it out to the scarce light.

Its surface was engraved with the form of a shield-bearing woman. Reminiscent of Greek sculpture, she posed upright, fending off a character covered in writhing snakes. At the medal's top edge, in a piece of metal extending past the star's border, was a worn eagle perched upon what might have been an artillery construct. The lines were corroded from what she suspected was age. Flipping the surface, her suspicions were confirmed by the number "1890."

"I very much doubt you all belong here." She dropped the bit of metal back into the box, looking after it just long enough to confirm that the rest of its compatriots were indeed identical. Setting down the container, she fell to her hands and knees and began the process of filling it with those pieces scattered across the floor.

The entire process took only a minute. Finished, she rose, dusting off her pants; her fingers still tingled with warmth imparted by the retrieved badges, but she figured the sensation to be one purely of temperature, not magic. Setting the box on an open patch of shelving, she promised herself she would return to collect it when finished with the section.

"Now, where was I?" She picked up her clipboard which had been discarded on the floor at her earlier discovery. "Karadji Staff," she murmured, after a moment of examination. Glancing around, she quickly spotted a thin piece of weathered wood, near her own height in length, leaning against a shelf a few yards away.

_Brilliant._ She quickly crossed the ground and hefted the object, grasping it so as to pin the numerous trinkets tied to its end against the surface, preventing them from getting caught on anything.

The instant her fingers closed on its surface, she knew something was wrong. Shifting it to the other hand, she opened her palm and held it out for inspection. The sight made her stomach clench.

"Oh, bollocks."

Red, irritated skin assaulted her vision, peeking out in patches surrounded by charred, rough borders of purple, neutralizer-imbued latex. The tattered edges sent up nearly-invisible waves of vapor as they continued to retreat, leaving more and more skin exposed. Yet, she could hardly note the change as she found herself fighting against… something. Weight, pushing in on all sides, assaulted her mind and body.

The familiarity of the sensation became evident as her legs began to collapse. Like an old companion, it weaseled its way into her heart utilizing those practiced tracks it had traveled so many times before. With every inch gained, it consumed her faculties, dulling every sense and pulling her fully under its sway before her body struck the floor.

Staring at the object in her one hand, she let the other palm move up to cradle her forehead.

"Oh, God. What have I done?"

* * *

_AN: Dun, dun, dun, dun... Ha, deal with the cliff-hanger. Anyways, if you find mistakes, feel free to inform muah. Same with questions/comments. Input fuels my musings!_


	4. Chapter 4

_It may be a little over dramatic... yeah, definitely. But pictures just kept flashing through my head in slowmo! _

_A transitional chapter. Bit short, but I realized it was the best place to cut out as the next bit that goes together is bound to be quite long. Anyways, enjoy!_

* * *

**MYKA**

"Helena?"

The soft, anxious call went unacknowledged by the shaking figure, drowned out beneath the sobs and mutterings issuing forth. The author merely continued rocking back and forth, knees drawn tightly to her chest and dark locks swaying with the motion, hiding her face. Her knuckles were bleached white from the force with which her fingers clung to the object, obviously an artifact, clenched between them.

The source of the call fretted to find a proper course of action. Worry and Wariness were shredding Myka to pieces, pulling her in separate directions as her hyperactive mind tried to sort through all the possible paths she might pursue. She had almost nothing to work with; the unidentified artifact affecting Helena could be anything with any number of side effects. There were too many variables; without anything to firmly root logic in, her severely weakened rational process was becoming subject to emotion, and the two were tearing her apart.

Yet, it only took a few seconds for one observation to become clear. The sobs and mutterings grew louder and less coherent by the moment, the quaking of the affected woman's form becoming more and more violent. Whatever her condition, it was deteriorating and quickly.

Myka chanced a few steps closer, stopping at what she estimated to be ten feet from the impaired figure. "Helena, what's wrong?" No response. The agent cautiously continued, edging forward a touch. "Talk to me. You can trust me. It's me, Myka."

"No!" Helena's head jerked upward, revealing her heavily flushed and tear-stained features.

The sudden outburst set Myka back a half step. Slack-jawed, she stared, captivated, into dark eyes burning with wild emotion. The look she was met with was tumultuous, the forces within locked in conflict and broadcasting an intensity that seemed too great to be contained in a single human. The mixture, one of enlightenment and craze, should have been irreconcilable, yet it was somehow there.

But as the raven-haired woman's intent to stand became clear, her form giving away to movement, the spell was broken.

"Helena, don't move. I want to help y-"

"No," Helena replied tightly, her chest heaving and shuddering with suppressed sobs. She staggered to her feet. "No, you must leave me." Her gaze tore away, moving to her own fists. One still tightly clenched what Myka now made out to be an ice pick while the other supported the staff it was tethered to. Star shaped bits of tarnished gold swung from leather strips wrapped around the wood, clinking gently as they bounced against the woman's fingers. "These hands have done far too many terrible things at my heart's beckoning. They must be stopped."

Myka could feel the hairs on the back of her neck rising. Her eyes widened in alarm. "Helena, let's think this through, all righ-"

"I have! Everything I've done, I've thought through. The mind… my mind… it is a housing place for perversity. To have hurt the ones I love as I have, to have nearly destroyed what could have been my world. To have nearly destroyed you… It must be stopped." The ice pick began to rise with Helena's hand.

The brunette stepped forward, her palms open. "Don't!" Wheels spun in her head, searching for something, anything, that might buy Pete just a little more time. This was clearly a manifestation of guilt; regret seemed to be the only thing holding any power over her. "If you do this, it'll just hurt those who love you and whom you love even more. You'll only cause them _more_ pain... Please don't do this. Stop, this. For all of us. For me."

The thin band of metal faltered, halting half raised over Helena's head, the sharp tip angled downward.

_Oh, God. Pete, please… _ Myka stared into the other woman's eyes, willing her not to move.

"HG! Where are you!? HG!"

Myka's head automatically swung around towards the source of the shouting. Her gaze caught on to Claudia's form rocketing towards them on the zip line.

But the interruption woke Helena from her momentary stasis of motion. Myka turned back to see the weapon reach the apex of its arch.

"I'm sorry, Myka." Helena's eyes pulled away as her chin rose, the plane of her face angling to parallel the ceiling.

The shout tore from Myka's chest, her legs coiling and springing as she strained to cover the ground between the two of them. Some part of her was cognizant of screams from Claudia echoing her own, of the fact that she wouldn't have enough time.

"No!"

**PETE**

_Can't stop, can't stop!_

Pete struggled to pace himself to the mantra looping in his head.

_Can't… stop. For HG. _

His lungs burned as he charged across the unforgiving cement, his body aching from the dash he and Myka had made to get here in the first place. The perpendicular aisle neared.

_Can't stop. For Myka. Can't let her break… again._

He reached the shelf's end, his shoulders and hips twisting as he took the corner tightly. Too tightly. His feet began to slide out from under him, the momentary weightlessness of a fall washing over him. A wordless scream built up inside his head, reviling against the idea of letting his partner down.

Fingers caught on cold steel. His hand wrapped around the bar of the shelf beside him. It anchored him, and he redirected his momentum upward and around the bend. The inner voice subsided as his eyes honed in on the lever just a few yards away. But before the internal sound could fade, its double assaulted his ears, prompting him into an immediate dive.

"No!"

Time almost froze as his tennis shoes left the ground. The moment, so pivotal, nearly halted as everything came to hang, suspended in the balance. Pete eyed his outstretched hand and was suddenly aware of every straining muscle holding it aloft. His heartbeat thundered in a slow ragtime, willing every fiber to redouble its efforts. The airwaves broadcasting his partners scream echoed in his ears, the pleading anguish simultaneously sapping and harboring his will.

Skin struck the metal rod. The simple contact washed over him, and the suspension shattered. Everything happened at once. His fingers curled, yanking the lever down in sync with his falling body. The hard edge of a crate refused to yield as his head collided with it.

Burning pain of the fall's end, other-worldly shrieks brimming with remorse, the overwhelming sense of failure pulling at his chest –

They all began to give way to darkness.

**HELENA**

_Oh bollocks._

As lucidity of unconsciousness began to fade, the Victorian was becoming increasingly aware of a splitting headache, its pulsing beat pounding against her skull as if trying to break out. _What have I done this time? I can't recall going to the pub… why am I wet?_ Moisture, warm and heavy against her skin, suddenly became apparent, as well as the feeling of a hand cradling her the back of her head and another at her shoulder. _Well, this is bound to be most entertaining._ Yet, something in her chest ached with the ghost of a rather unamusing pain.

"Helena?"

The author instantly recognized the worry-laden voice.

"Myka?" She burst into a coughing fit the moment the name left her mouth. Her throat felt raw with burning discomfort.

"Thank God," Claudia's voice rang out in nearly palpable relief.

"Hold on, don't try to see," Myka ordered, her words echoing the younger woman's emotion on a lesser level.

The hand at her shoulder disappeared. A moment later, soft, dry cloth gently rubbed against her lids, cleaning the saturated surfaces.

"Okay. You can open them. Slowly…"

Knowing better than to disregard the Pre-Med graduate's instruction, Helena inched her eyes open. Gradually, Myka's face, leaning close over her own, came into focus. Her skin was smeared with purple goo, her curly locks of hair matted with it.

"Can you see?"

"Darling," the author croaked. She cleared her throat and continued. "You are most certainly one of the most gorgeous women I've known, but you look a bit… disheveled."

The brunette grinned instantly, the blush rising on her cheeks over shadowed by the release of a great wave of anxiety. The agent turned, looking up at the redhead positioned behind her shoulder. "I think she'll be fine. Would you go check on Pete? He should've been back already."

"I'm alright, I'm alright." Pete's voice rang out from somewhere out of sight.

Claudia immediately stepped towards it, leaving Helena's field of vision. "Dude, what happened to your face!?"

Myka's attention temporarily waylaid, the Victorian shifted and began to rise. Her head immediately rebelled against the movement, her vision wavering, yet she continued to struggle.

"Woah, easy."

Hands snaked around her back, offering support and slowly guiding her into a seated position.

"So, how do you feel?"

Helena closed her eyes. "As if I had a far, far too much to drink last night." She felt a chuckle rumble in the agent's chest pressed against her side.

"Good."

The raven-haired woman opened her eyes and shot the brunette a wry look.

Myka took it in stride with uncharacteristic ease and lack of fumbling. "Hey, if that's the worst of it, I'll take it happily."

The cryptic reference to her condition made Helena frown. "What exactly does that mea-"

"Oh my God! Is everyone all right?"

She shifted her eyes away to find Agent Jinks leaping out of the Edison vehicle Artie cherished so.

Myka nodded in reply, forgetting Helena's unfinished and unanswered question. "I think so. Help me get her on to the cart?"

Hands pulled at Helena's. The agents each took a side, draping one of her arms over their shoulders and slowly hoisting her to her feet. She held her breath at the change of altitude, shutting her eyes tightly to block out her vision as the world around her began to swim. They began to guide her forward

"Helena?"

She didn't answer immediately.

"Steve, wait." Their forward motion halted. "Helena, are you okay?"

Her chest expanded, lungs filling with air. The sensation was accompanied with increased queasiness. "Oh yes. Carry on." A pained smile tugged at her lips. "I'm just trying not to vomit."

* * *

_And on that lovely note...  
_  
_Really, I just didn't want to end on another cliffhanger. Also, reviews/criticism are lovely as always.  
_


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